Magic

I indulge  my delight in the woodland ferns.
Who had cut their lacy fronds in the night?
It could only be the elves I do not see,
none more nimble with the scissors.

I know they watch me and the dog,
feel them hold their breath as
they aim their bows, lest we trespass
on the sacred mould, theirs by right.

We stay on the path, stumble  the roots;
the dog at times strays, but soon returns
hackles at his neck spiked with fear.
the magic of the wood, illusions  believed.

More than of gods, real. Come by night,
sense the black of pines and silver  birch,
long kept secrets, birches in the moonlight,
magic that makes the world go round.